


The Pale Hand of Death

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: "Get it out", "Stop Please", Blood, Blood and Injury, Day 6, Field Surgery, First Aid, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hugs, POV Sam Winchester, Please..., Sam Winchester Whump, Whump, Whumptober 2020, no more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Sam is shot during a hunt.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947223
Comments: 5
Kudos: 73
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	The Pale Hand of Death

**Author's Note:**

> **Whumptober 2020**
> 
> **No 6. PLEASE...**
> 
> **"Get It Out" | No More | "Stop, please"**

A bullet burying itself right into one of Sam’s ribs, shattering it, was not the day he’d expected to have. Life had seemed like it wanted to switch it up a little, and they’d ended up fighting humans. Humans who had guns.

Fantastic.

First the pressure of the bullet hitting him was all Sam knew, but then the pain kicked in, not building in waves, more like a sudden punch to the gut. He dropped to the floor, Dean and Castiel watching in horror.

Everything paused, the air beating with tension. Sam tried to breathe, but found only agony. Were there tears on his face? Was that what was soaking into his hair? Or maybe it was sweat. God, yes, he was sweating. 

Castiel and Dean screamed out battle cries as they went after their attackers. They fought with a renewed vigor that could only come about from watching a loved one suffer at someone else’s hands.

Sam couldn’t keep track of the fight. Reality didn’t exist outside his overheating body. Despite how feverish he felt, he shook as if he were cold. Shock. Sam couldn’t get a decent breath in, puffing out air, and barely gasping it in before his body forced him to exhale again.

His head spun, and the agony had nausea roiling through his stomach. Sam didn’t have enough coherence to wish his body to not throw up.

There were cries.

From him?

From his family?

Sam didn’t know.

There was something hot and metallic in his mouth. And his body pounded, screaming that he needed help. All Sam could do was lie there, listening to the battle and the sounds he made, as pain possessed every part of him — mind, body, and soul.

It went quiet. Sam still lay there groaning.

_Help, help, help, help, HELP!_ Sam thought desperately. That seemed to be the only word in his head.

Familiar hands pressed down on him, making him gasp and spasm from renewed pain.

“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s gonna be okay.”

Sam knew Dean had spoken, but the words didn’t matter.

All of him trembling, Sam got out a weak, shaky, “Get it out.”

“Cas — Impala; I have a first aid kit in the trunk. Run. Now!”

Retreating footsteps pounded away in a flurry.

Movement, something pressing into his mouth. The room spun.

“Bite down on this, Sam. There we go. That’s it.”

The taste of leather filled Sam’s mouth, and he had a mere second of clarity where he realized he’d bitten his tongue.

An interminable amount of time passed, in which Sam’s lungs and head pounded, and razor-like shards inside him seemed to want to steal what little breaths he could get. His plaid shirt was ripped open, the shirt underneath lifted up.

Dean might’ve grimaced. He might not have.

His bloodied hands were over the wound again.

Castiel came rushing back.

And they set to work.

Dean cleared the blood away with an antiseptic, and the only thing Sam could feel was soreness, the wound so deep the sharp sting ceased to exist.

A scream tore through him, as he bit down on the belt. His body began to spasm, trying to pull away. Castiel held him down, his palms glowing.

“Shattered rib,” he concluded to Dean. “We can’t leave the bullet in there with it mixed up with all the bone. And it’s too close to his lungs. Even if it hadn’t shattered his rib it’d still be a danger leaving it in.”

“God, you think his rib saved him from a punctured lung?”

“I know it did.”

“Sammy, this is gonna hurt,” Dean said, taking out a knife and lighter.

“You’re okay, Sam.”

_Just get it out,_ Sam prayed.

Had Castiel nodded? Had he heard him?

Sam soon didn’t care; he didn’t care about anything because a hot knife was digging into his torso just beneath his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears falling free. He screamed till his throat hurt. He screamed till it felt like someone was prying out his vocal cords with tongs. He screamed till he barely had anything left.

Castiel held him down.

Dean worked.

Sam knew they were giving him the help he’d so desperately craved, but addled with pain, he wanted them both dead.

Dean cut deeper, and the belt fell from Sam’s mouth. He cried out in a hoarse voice that barely sounded like it belonged to him, “Stop! _Please!_ ”

That ache in him ran deep, the pain of a broken bone, but multiplied by the most infinite number in existence.

The knife was gone. Now the antiseptic was being poured on him once more.

He sobbed, words incoherent, the world around him one of torment, and all the worst things that existed. In this moment, the pain was his worst experience, the most vile, sickening, agonizing thing he’d ever faced in his entire life. His very soul was throbbing, screaming, as he cried.

Castiel’s hands pressed down on him over the wound, and he got a knee up on him to continue to hold him down.

“Please… stop,” Sam begged. “Please stop.”

Something glinted in his vision, and then an instrument that Sam knew he knew the name of but could barely make sense of right now was held up.

_God, please. No more._

_No more, no more._

Castiel removed his hands from the wound. The instrument dug into him.

_Stop please no more get it out please stop please no more no more no more…_

Sam felt as if his very insides were being ripped out of him, and he wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t. Finally, Dean leaned back, crouching. He’d been successful. The red-coated bullet was held up to the light. In the back of Sam’s mind he could categorize it, recognize it was a .45 from a police issued, semi-automatic M1911.

“Cas, do your thing!”

He hadn’t even had to be told, because immediately, healing hands were laid on him.

Sam took in a full, deep breath as the pain crept away, like darkness disappearing before the sun. And then, it was gone, pure light replacing the dark, twisted agonies of his body.

Reality came back to Sam, and he stared up at his family, in total shock — not physically, but mentally.

Castiel pulled his shirt down to cover him, and then helped him sit up. He held onto his bicep. Dean leaned forward and patted Sam’s shoulder. His brother was sweating, breathless, blood-covered.

“You’re one damn lucky son of a bitch.”

Sam couldn’t see his luck.

“Your rib took the impact. It saved your life, even though it was shattered. You could’ve been dead,” Castiel spoke.

Sam breathed in and out hard.

_You could’ve been dead._

A strong hand patted his shoulder.

“Come here.”

Dean wrapped a hand around the back of Sam’s head and pulled him into a hug. Castiel patted his back.

They were the only real things in his world.


End file.
